heiroglyphobia

a little day. the postman woke me up too early with a package that wasn't for me. a darkened morning spent in bed and a late start on my work. words didnt come. all of the ideas contract and expand and contract like tiny storm systems. pages and pages of grey. the sun filtered through the clouds and i ate spicy noodles on the roof of his shop, on the big red canoe with my cat who chased imaginary spiders while chestnut tree-leaves fell. read critical theory in a very hot bath with the window wide open to let the birdsongs in. saw a film tonight and biked home through hades, which emerged from under the black roads in a torrent of dead leaves and a falling ocean. tomorrow arrives too soon without any brilliance. all i have are these fumbly words. when i print them off tomorrow they will appear solid and finite; but they are no different than guffaws and snorts.